


hopelessly devoted

by orphan_account



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (Working Title), ANYWAYS pog in chat subscribe with twitch prime, Angst, Death, Dream is Orpheus, George is Eurydice, Graphic Description of Corpses, HALF OF THE FIRST CHAPTER IS OLD AND SOME I WROTE TODAY, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Not Beta Read, and enjoy, but not a lot, i change a few things, ooc dream in the first chapter BUT its on purpose, or proof read at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28120617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: you promised me eternity. it's hardly been a day.--or, the orpheus and eurydice au that no one asked for ever.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	hopelessly devoted

**Author's Note:**

> please read the tags

“Come on, George. You can’t leave, not yet.” Dream’s words are choked, a watery smile clinging to his lips. “You promised me eternity. It’s hardly been a day.” Laughter bubbles up through his throat but it holds no humour. His hand trembles as he reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair from his lovers' unseeing eyes, hysteria lining his words. “I can’t let you get away with that, now can I, princess?”

There’s a pause of silence, one born of habit. George hates that name, insists it’s ill-fitting no matter how many times Dream reassures that it’s not. He would yell and whine like a child anytime he was called by it, and today, Dream eagerly anticipates said moment. 

It never comes. Silence prevails. 

The blue the man favoured so heavily in life is ever-present in death, tinting his lips and the beds of his fingernails. An acidic green liquid drips from the snakebite in his leg still, burning the skin it glides across, though the victim could no longer feel; the sickening colour a stark contrast against the greying skin, a morbid reminder of what had come to pass. His gaze is locked to the sky, glassy and unfocused, and Dream grabs his hand as he screams. It’s cold, but his grip never falters.

His voice runs hoarse, and he drops his head against his husband's chest. A once calming action now induces unadulterated anguish, the absence of the soft rise and fall, the lack of a thumping beneath the ribcage too noticeable to even pretend as if this were a sick joke; a cruel nightmare that he would soon wake from. But, oh, how he prays to whatever higher powers there are for that to be the reality. He stays for hours, ignorant to the warmth of the sunsets, and the inevitable chill of the nights that follow, hoping for nothing short of a miracle. 

They have to drag him away from the scene kicking and screaming after three days when the body starts to decay. Even in that state, with a blood-like liquid dripping from his nose, and a repulsive smell to match, Dream thinks George is beautiful. Perfect. He could never be anything less. 

They take him home, tell him to shower, to eat. They don't tell him where George is, no matter how many times he begs. They tell him it doesn't matter, but it _does_ , _it so does_ , _how could they not understand that?_ He tells them to go to hell and slams the door in their faces. Because how _dare_ they.

George’s presence in the living world slips from existence, and with it goes Dream’s state of mind.

But when you have nothing to lose and everything to gain, insanity is a virtue. And after all, what is there worth fighting for if not true love?


End file.
